


what were ya thinkin?!

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Mentions of Sex, Mild Language, Mind Reading, No Sex, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, Violent Thoughts, no beta we die like daichi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi is cursed to hear thoughts he has no right to.  Nice thoughts, absentminded thoughts, thoughts that tear him apart from the inside out: he hears it all with skin on skin.It’s better that no one touches him — that he touches no one.  That’s how it has to be.Until the day Miya Atsumu touches him.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 35
Kudos: 623
Collections: ~SakuAtsu~





	what were ya thinkin?!

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall, foxkillskat here. i never had a grammar class in my got dang life and im kinda (100%) a redneck, so enjoy the mess!

_Talented. Intelligent. Flexible._

Kiyoomi hears it all when they touch him; when they pull him by the arm or give him a high five or ruffle his mess of black curls. It’s not all like this, though.

_Pathetic_ , he hears when his youth coach helps him up after yet another failed dive for the ball. _Asshole_ , when the girl’s pinky brushes his as he returns her confession gift. _Freak_ , when the reporter pokes at his insanely flexible wrist stretched back tight against his arm. The curse spares nothing. 

Kiyoomi can’t pinpoint when it began exactly — it crept up on him: little snippets here and there growing all the more intrusive as they merged into fully formed thoughts. But he does remember with perfect clarity that bright day near the start of middle school, perched on the edge of his best friend’s bed.

_You’re dirty. You’re disgusting. You’re repulsive._

_I hate you._

Kiyoomi wishes he could take back that poorly calculated, clumsy first kiss and unhear the thought that came with it. But he’s a mind reader, not a time traveler with the power to change the past. He can only change himself.

From then on, Kiyoomi avoids people like the plague. He doesn’t touch anyone; he doesn’t let himself be touched. The mask comes — first, as a precaution. It provides a sense of safety and separation from those around him. So does the sanitizing, Kiyoomi finds. Always a clean child, a child cautious of germs and sickness, he takes it to a whole new level. 

Kiyoomi sanitizes his entire life. 

Anything to rid the feeling of their touch, their breath, their sweat, their germs on his skin. Gone are the days Kiyoomi attends birthday parties or watches a movie at the cinema. The only safe space is his bedroom — and later, his apartment — where he exists alone in the prison he’s created.

Volleyball is his only escape, the only piece of his life he couldn’t bear to cleanse. Not because he’s in love with it, like some people he knows, but because he physically has to see it through until the end. He can’t not. He’s grateful, then, to find a bearable balance in it: no one touches him, he touches no one. It’s between him and the blank-minded ball.

With these things, Kiyoomi makes it through life, survives — even lives, in a way. He can continue on like this until the end; he’s convinced of it.

Until the day Miya Atsumu touches him.

—

They’re teammates, not exactly friends, but they manage to get lumped together often enough during practice and away games and press events. Likely because no one else can stand them for more than five minutes. Always arguing, competing, calling each other out. Kiyoomi certainly can’t stand Atsumu.

“Nice kill, Omi-kun.” Atsumu matches this disturbing nickname with an equally disturbing grin.

Kiyoomi doesn’t bother correcting him. “It would have been nicer if your toss wasn’t so low, _Miya_.”

At this point they’ve been on the same team for several months, not to mention the fact they’ve known each other since high school, playing opposite on the court before they were ever on the same side.

“Yer awful prickly today, Omi-Omi.” Atsumu gives him a teasing smirk. “Is it cuz I beat ya at service aces in the last game?”

This little one-sided competition between them is something Kiyoomi knows he will never win. Even if he does manage to get more service aces (like he did in their first three games), Atsumu will twist the rules until he comes out on top. He’s that kind of guy: someone with no respect for boundaries. And because he’s that kind of guy, Kiyoomi also knows it is inevitable that Miya Atsumu will touch him. Knowing doesn’t make it any easier when it happens two weeks later in the locker room.

It’s late. Late enough that everyone else has gone home. Even Hinata and Bokuto, who would play all night if their bodies allowed, had disappeared a half an hour back when Kiyoomi returned from his post-practice yoga session. Fresh from the shower with a towel around his waist, he likes the locker room like this: quiet enough he can hear the occasional drip of water fall from his curls and hit the floor. It’s peaceful. His mind is peaceful.

So, of course, Atsumu has to slam the door open, earbuds blasting music so loud Kiyoomi can make out the words. Atsumu yanks them from his ears and makes a show of wiping post-run sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. Kiyoomi purposefully doesn’t look at his ridiculously sculpted abs — he really doesn’t. Spurring Atsumu on is a bad idea.

“Yer still here, Omi-kun?” Atsumu cocks his head like a puppy. 

Innocent enough, but Kiyoomi knows he isn’t done. Not even a second goes by before a slow smirk spreads across his face. Kiyoomi glares.

“Don’t tell me ya had to scrub the shower before usin’ it.” Atsumu raises a single brow. “You just got it dirty again, ya know.”

_Dirty._ Kiyoomi tenses. _Disgusting. Repulsive._

“What’s wrong, Omi-Omi?” 

There’s a lilt to Atsumu’s voice which comes out of nowhere. Just like his hand against the lockers, trapping Kiyoomi in. He’s close — close enough Kiyoomi can feel the waves of heat rolling off him. It makes his skin burn and his eyes water.

“Fuck off, Miya,” Kiyoomi growls, but it comes out all wrong, stuttering and lacking in strength. He can’t hide the fact his breath is labored, his chest tight. Panic is taking over.

Something like uncertainty flashes in Atsumu’s eyes and he takes his hand away from the locker, away from Kiyoomi’s head, barely missing contact. Kiyoomi makes no move, wary, but Atsumu doesn’t try anything else. Instead, he mutters an apology as he plops onto the bench and unlaces his running shoes. 

“I didn’t mean—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence — he doesn’t need to. The equal parts of pity and disgust dripping from his voice suffice. He thinks Kiyoomi is a freak. A sad, dirty, freak. And, for some reason, this bothers him more than it should.

Kiyoomi pulls on his clothes and his mask as fast as he can, refusing to meet Atsumu’s eyes, even as they burn holes in his skin. He doesn’t need a look to confirm it; he needs to leave, and he’s about to when Atsumu does it.

Miya fucking Atsumu grabs Kiyoomi by the wrist. The touch comes out of nowhere and without thought, judging by quickly Atsumu realizes his mistake. He jerks his hand back as if he touched a hot burner instead of his teammate’s arm. None of it makes any difference — the deed is done. Kiyoomi hears exactly what Atsumu thinks about him.

_I want you._

Kiyoomi bolts.

—

Miya Atsumu wants him. 

Kiyoomi sprays the mirror for the fourth time, wiping it clear the same. He tries to focus his eyes and search for any streaks, but all he can see are his messy curls and furrowed brow and the fact he never bothered to remove his mask when he got back to his apartment. Miya Atsumu wants him. His brain repeats for the millionth time, no doubt in his mind he heard it correctly. The question is: in what way?

He probably wants to fuck. That’s has to be it. Atsumu is well known for his conquests of both men and women, and not once has the team gone out to celebrate a win without him disappearing during the night. Kiyoomi has seen it all play out from the corner of many a booth as he pays his social dues to the team. Tall women with long hair in brightly dyed colors, muscular men with shaved heads and full beards, college students whose dark circles say they haven’t slept in a week, foreign businessmen who know all of ten words in Japanese: Atsumu has had them all. With morals that lacking, it only makes sense he would try to fuck his teammates.

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose, more disgusted than before. Atsumu really sees him as no different than the trash he takes home, dumped out in the alley before morning. Kiyoomi’s wrist burns, and he’s debating another shower when the doorbell sounds. For a full three minutes he debates ignoring it, knowing full well who is out there waiting for him. It sounds again, relentless.

Atsumu appears surprised at Kiyoomi’s lack of it. He starts off his sentence as such, filled with uncharacteristic ums and blanks, while he brushes back his shower-damp hair with his hand. Without all the product and primping, it looks soft for once. Touchable, even. Not that Kiyoomi notices.

“What do you want?” He glares and crosses his arms. “Get on with it.”

“Here.” Atsumu holds out a phone — Kiyoomi’s phone. “Ya left it when ya, um, ran off.”

Kiyoomi stares at it. He should find a fresh pair of gloves.

“I washed my hands,” Atsumu interjects his thoughts. “And I wiped it down.” He pulls out a used alcohol wipe from his other pocket.

Kiyoomi’s mouth twitches and he’s glad he kept his mask on.

Atsumu holds it out further, hand crossing over the threshold of Kiyoomi’s doorway. This hand, the same one which latched onto his wrist, manages to brush Kiyoomi’s when he takes his phone. At this point, it’s no accident, but Kiyoomi can’t quite pin Atsumu as the perpetrator.

_Invite me in. Please._

The plea catches him off guard and he nearly slams the door on it, on everything. This time, though, he forces himself to meet Atsumu’s eyes. There’s no evidence of a teasing glint in his search results. If anything, Atsumu looks vaguely nervous.

“Would you like some tea?” The words leave Kiyoomi’s mouth of their own volition, and before he has time to second think this clear mistake in judgement, Miya Atsumu is in his apartment, seated at his bar top counter.

Kiyoomi measures out the tea and trains his eyes on the slow bubbling water in the kettle. All the while, Atsumu stares daggers into his back. They’re both silent, a tension in the air weighing down any words they could try to say. Kiyoomi’s head is quiet too, surprisingly. He’s calm, collected, even.

This is good. Kiyoomi can put a stop this right now.

He slides the teacup across the counter.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says at the exact same time Atsumu says, “Omi-kun.”

They both stop.

“Guests first,” Kiyoomi insists.

Atsumu shifts in his seat, glancing around the apartment like he’s searching for an escape.

“Nice place ya got here,” he chooses. “Bo gave me yer address.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t care. 

“Is that why you wanted to come in?” he challenges. “To see my apartment?”

Atsumu’s brow scrunches. “You invited me, remember?”

That, he did.

“I’m not going to sleep with you.” The words come out harsh and cold, and the taste they leave behind is beyond bitter.

Atsumu’s mouth falls open.

“Is that surprising?” Kiyoomi throws another punch to his gut. “Not used to hearing no, are you?”

A look passes across Atsumu’s features that Kiyoomi can’t quite decipher. Almost like hurt, if that were possible. But it’s gone too quickly, replaced with hardened eyes and lips drawn into a tight line.

“Sakusa,” Atsumu discards the nickname for once. “Yer misunderstandin’ me.”

Kiyoomi snorts. Unlikely.

“God, yer such a self-entitled prick.” Atsumu chuckles in a dangerous way. He grips the teacup white-knuckled and gulps down its contents in one go.

“Ironic, coming from you.” Kiyoomi leans back against the stove to put as much distance between them as possible. He shouldn’t be near those hands; he shouldn’t even look at them.

“Look.” Atsumu’s cup clinks against the counter with too much force for Kiyoomi’s liking. “I don’t know what game yer tryna play, but I came here to apologize.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. He doesn’t buy it.

“You already—”

“Properly,” Atsumu cuts him off. “I’m sorry for teasin’ ya, okay? I didn’t mean to getchya all freaked out.”

Kiyoomi blinks. 

“And I’m also sorry for touchin ya,” Atsumu tacks on, looking into his empty cup. “I know ya have a thing about that.”

A thing. Kiyoomi wants to laugh. If only it was that simple. All the thoughts he’s ever heard come back to him at once, ricocheting around in his brain. He wants to bang his head against the fridge until it empties. He wants to stick it in the oven and burn it all out. He wants to— he wants —.

Atsumu runs his thumb up and down the handle of the cup, waiting, pulling him back with that gentle motion. Kiyoomi can’t look away.

He wants Atsumu to touch him.

“It won’t happen again,” Atsumu lets out with a heavy breath. Those fingers push the cup forward, slow and steady, almost fluid-like.

He wants what?

Atsumu rises. “Anyways, thanks fer the tea. I’ll get out of yer hair now.”

Atsumu’s fingers in his hair. On his neck. At his waist. Around his wrist. Kiyoomi is struck by these wants, one after another, piercing him like knives. And when the door to his apartment shuts, he’s hit with the sharpest one of all.

He wants Atsumu.

—

On the outside, everything is the same. Atsumu sets to him no less, no more. They make their usual scathing remarks to each other. They synchronize on the court and drift around each other off, just like they’ve always done.

The difference lies in Kiyoomi’s head. 

Gravitational pull — that’s what it is. Everything in his brain screams at him to get closer. To sit on the bench with Atsumu during the break, legs pressed up against each other. To trace the edge of his hand when he passes Kiyoomi a water bottle. To brush his sweaty bangs out of his eyes as he squints at the play Coach draws out on the board. Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose at that last one. What the hell is wrong with him?

In turn, Kiyoomi fights back with everything he has. Never in his life has he mentally slapped himself so many times. Atsumu does his part too, leaving a comfortable amount of space between them at all times. Somehow, this only makes it worse. With each passing moment the pull grows stronger, bubbles back up and threatens to boil over the moment Kiyoomi stops watching it.

“Do I got somethin’ on my face?” Atsumu interrupts his thoughts.

They’re in the locker room again, alone, but not for long. Showers are running and the occasional squeak of a sneaker against the gym floor sneaks in under the door as Hinata and Bokuto continue their practice.

“No.” Kiyoomi forces himself to look away.

“Well, don’t get shy now. Ya already spent the past ten minutes starin’ at me. What’s a few more?” Atsumu calls him out as he pops a hand on his hip in dramatic fashion. “Can’t blame ya when I look this good.”

Kiyoomi huffs and pulls up his mask. “Don’t be so full of yourself.”

Atsumu just smirks. “You didn’t disagree.”

Kiyoomi wants to wipe that smirk right off his face. He wants to push Atsumu up against the lockers and knock the breath out of him. He wants to snake his hands under his shirt and make him gasp for that air back, beg for it, plead. He wants to— he wants—.

His want shows on his face loud and clear. Atsumu’s eyes grow wider with each slow blink, his smirk long gone.

“Omi—” he starts.

The door flies open and Bokuto and Hinata enter blabbering excitedly about their bar hopping plans for the night. They pull Atsumu into their conversation, shattering the moment with no chance of recovery. Kiyoomi can’t stay a second longer. He pulls his bag over his shoulder and makes his exit — without changing his clothes, without taking a shower, without his phone.

Goddamnit, he left his phone again.

—

Atsumu doesn’t show up until hours later this time. When he finally does, ringing the doorbell twice with no time in between, he’s drunk. Absolutely shit-faced.

“You reek.” Kiyoomi wastes no time in letting him know.

For some reason, Atsumu laughs.

“Aw, is that any way to treat yer favorite teammate?” His grin grows wider. “I even left early to get this back to ya.” Atsumu holds out the device, wrapped neatly in a tissue.

Kiyoomi pauses. So what if Atsumu isn’t completely careless?

He forces his gaze hard. “Not early enough. It’s after midnight.”

Kiyoomi reaches for his phone and Atsumu yanks it back.

“Nuh-uh. Not so fast.” His grin is pure evil. “What’s my reward? First delivery was free; now ya gotta pay up!”

Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut. This can’t be happening.

“What do you want?” he forces through gritted teeth.

Atsumu purses his lips and rocks on his heels. “I didn’t think ya’d give in that easily.”

“Kinda expected ya to tell me to fuck off,” he adds, running fingers through his mussed hair.

Kiyoomi’s one-track mind jumps to those fingers: where they could go, what they could do.

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu cocks a brow and tilts his head in the way only drunk Atsumu can. “Yer not gonna tell me to fuck off now, are ya?”

“If you want to come in—” he finds himself saying. “You have to shower before you touch anything.”

Atsumu’s grin comes back, absolutely childish and full of wonder as if Kiyoomi just said he’d take him to Disneyland or whatever children like — it’s not like he knows.

“And don’t you dare get sick.” Against his better judgement, Kiyoomi steps back to let Atsumu in.

“I can hold my alcohol, thank ya very much!” Atsumu protests as he tries to remove his shoes. One comes off with ease, but when he yanks on its twin, he stumbles.

Before Kiyoomi knows it, Atsumu is holding onto his arm to right himself, skin touching skin. Drunk Atsumu is oblivious to his mistake, too focused on freeing his foot. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, receives a steady stream of consciousness — if he could call it that.

_Why did I challenge Bo? He drinks like a damn fish. I’m way too drunk to be here right now. I should have—. Gah, stupid shoe get off my damn foot! I should have gone home first and brushed my teeth and showered and watered my plants and—. Ah, oh no. I didn’t water them yesterday either. Don’t mind, don’t mind. I’m here and Omi’s hair looks soft and he looks nice out of gym clothes and—. And I’m touching him again. Shit. Oh no._

Atsumu jerks his hand back and succeeds in falling over this time, tailbone hitting the wood floor with a thump.

“Sorry!” he squeaks out, waving his hands frantically. “I didn’t mean—”

Kiyoomi’s hand finds one of the curls framing his face. “My hair... soft,” he repeats to himself in a whisper.

Atsumu stops his rambling apology with an open mouth. “Did I say that out loud?” 

Kiyoomi snaps out of it. 

“Did I say all of that out loud?” Atsumu asks again, incredulous. His already flushed cheeks are gaining color, fast. “Omiiiii,” he whines.

Kiyoomi holds out a hand. Atsumu stares at it.

“But I thought—”

“Take it,” Kiyoomi commands and Atsumu complies, fingers warm and dry.

_Omi’s hand is so cold. Fuck. Why did I say that shit out loud? What if I’m speaking right now? I’m so drunk. Wait. That’s my excuse—._

Kiyoomi lets go once Atsumu is back on his feet.

“Sorry.” Atsumu pushes his hand through his hair and gives a sheepish grin. “I’m really drunk.”

“So, I’ve heard—” Kiyoomi stops himself. “Go take a shower.” He points down the hall. “There’s fresh towels on the bar and toothbrushes under the sink.”

Atsumu swallows, looks like he wants to say something, then swallows it back again. Almost like he was going to be sick. Kiyoomi waits for him to disappear down the hallway before rushing to the kitchen sink to scrub his hands.

What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he such a freak? A dirty, disgusting, repulsive freak who wants to touch (and be touched by) his inebriated teammate. He scrubs harder, and water droplets splash across his shirt. Dirty water.

Kiyoomi pulls a clean kitchen towel from the drawer and dabs furiously at the wet spots. He should change. He should get a fresh shirt. Atsumu thinks he looks nice. Kiyoomi shakes his head at the regurgitated thought. He looks down at his clothes: a simple black V-neck and grey lounge pants, free of lint and hair and stains save the drying spots across his abdomen. Typical house clothes; nothing special. How could he possibly look nice?

Atsumu is drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying — thinking. He definitely doesn’t mean any of it. Still, Kiyoomi smiles to himself as the water spots fade. He doesn’t change his shirt.

—

Here they are again in his kitchen at his counter with nothing but tea between them. Except this time Atsumu smells like his shampoo. The citrus scent suits him — almost too well — and Kiyoomi tries to recall why he chose this one.

“Yer makin a funny face, Omi,” Atsumu chuckles and rests his elbows on the counter and his chin in his hands. “Do I still smell bad?”

“No.” Kiyoomi takes a sip of his tea.

“So ya think I smell good, then?” Atsumu wags his brows.

Kiyoomi breathes a heavy sigh. “I was hoping the shower would sober you up. Somehow you’ve managed to become more bothersome.”

“If I’m bothering ya, why’d ya let me in, huh?”

Atsumu’s asking something else with his heavy-lidded look, something with more weight. But he’s still drunk and Kiyoomi refuses to indulge either of them.

“And let the entire city of Higashiōsaka suffer?” Kiyoomi shakes his head. “I’m not a monster.”

“Who knew Omi-Omi cared so much about others?” Atsumu sends right back, hand over his heart. “I’m touched.”

“You’re not included.” Kiyoomi tries not to stare at that hand.

Atsumu does him the favor of collapsing to rest his chin on the countertop, missing his teacup by a few centimeters.

“You’ve ended me with yer cruelty,” he whines, eyes closed. “K.O.”

“Pity.” Kiyoomi finishes his tea and soundlessly places the cup on the counter.

Atsumu doesn’t respond. In fact, his head drops even further, cheek pressed to the cool countertop. Kiyoomi will have to clean that later. Right now, though, right now it’s all he can do to hold still — to keep from reaching out and threading his fingers through that citrus-scented hair. His hand shakes with want. His whole body vibrates with it. His brain buzzes inside his skull.

_Feels nice._

It hits Kiyoomi that he’s lost his battle when Atsumu’s thought reaches him. He can’t help himself — nothing could feel better than the silky strands of hair beneath his fingertips, the damp heat radiating from Atsumu’s freshly-washed scalp.

_Don’t stop, Omi. Feels so nice. Please god._

Atsumu’s silent prayer goes answered by Kiyoomi’s desperate hands. This is okay. He’s not doing anything wrong, right? He’s just indulging his teammate, his friend, his —.

_Keep going, Kiyoomi._

Kiyoomi’s thumb brushes the shell of Atsumu’s ear and the noise he makes is somewhere between a happy breath and a wanting sigh, and it’s not in Kiyoomi’s head.

They both tense.

_Fuck. Pretend to be asleep. Yup. Don’t mind me, just sleepin’ over here._

“I know you’re awake,” Kiyoomi says absentmindedly as he resumes stroking Atsumu’s hair.

_Damn._

Atsumu peels one eye open, fixing Kiyoomi with a dark pupil. 

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu’s voice is low and hesitant. “Why’re ya touchin’ me?”

_You think I’m dirty and disgusting and repulsive._

Kiyoomi’s heart stops.

_You hate me._

He pulls his hand back and squeezes his eyes shut. He won’t do it — he won’t cry. Not in front of Atsumu, not like this.

“You should leave,” Kiyoomi forces out one word at a time. “You shouldn’t be here right now.”

“I don’t understand.”

Kiyoomi opens his eyes to the worst. Atsumu’s brows are pinched together and his lips are trembling and his eyes—.

“I don’t understand why you hate me so much.” He picks his head off the counter and wipes his tears on the back of his hand. “And don’t go sayin’ yer not the only one.”

“I get it — everyone hates me,” Atsumu chokes out the words in place of a sob. “But I never— I never cared ‘bout ‘em.”

“Fer some stupid fricken reason, I want you—” Atsumu sucks in a sniffle. “I want you to like me.”

Kiyoomi can’t breathe. He needs to say something. He needs to make this right. He needs to—.

He’s touching Atsumu’s cheek.

_What do I do? What do I do? Maybe I should leave. Fuck. What do I do? Gotta stop cryin’. God, I’m pathetic._

“You’re not—” Kiyoomi stops. Can he do this?

_What? I’m not what?_

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. He can do this.

“You’re not pathetic. You’re not dirty or disgusting or repulsive or any of those things.”

Kiyoomi wipes away a tear with his thumb and Atsumu swallows. He isn’t done; he has to say it all: everything he wishes was said to him.

“I don’t hate you — it kills me to know you think that.” 

There’s a pause.

_Can ya read my thoughts?_

Kiyoomi swallows. “Yes.”

“What?” Atsumu’s red-rimmed eyes go wide.

_Oh god. No way. What about that time last week where I—._

“It’s only when I’m touching you.” Kiyoomi yanks his hand away. Whatever it was, he doesn’t want to know. “Or anyone else for that matter.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t need to touch Atsumu to make sense of the questions brewing.

“Before you ask, I’ve been like this since I was a child, I don’t know why, and I don’t want to talk about it now,” he tacks on. Conversation for another time — if there is one.

Atsumu is quiet for a moment. And this moment stretches and stretches, growing into minutes. Kiyoomi becomes acutely aware of his own pulse pounding in his ears, keeping record of time as it passes around them.

“It all makes sense now,” Atsumu finally says.

Kiyoomi waits for what’s next. The part where Atsumu gets angry and calls him a freak and says he wants nothing to do with him. When Atsumu accuses him of eavesdropping, invasion of privacy, manipulation. Kiyoomi is guilty of it all and more.

Atsumu is quiet again, save a final sniffle. Then, he reaches out for Kiyoomi’s hand. His fingers are warm — hot, even — against Kiyoomi’s ice-cold knuckles.

_Can you hear me?_

Kiyoomi nods slowly, breath caught in his throat. He’s ready to hear it. He can take it.

_I stole yer phone._

“What?” Kiyoomi blurts out.

_I needed an excuse to come see ya, so I took it when ya weren’t lookin. Please don’t be mad._

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with this... this temporary relief. His shoulders drop slightly.

_Then I kinda chickened out and I challenged Bo to a drinking contest, and I got way too drunk on purpose because I didn’t know how to face ya after you looked at me like that, but I still had yer phone and—_

“Looked at you like what?” Kiyoomi’s lost now.

_Like you hated my guts. In the locker room — you were glaring at me like ya wanted to wipe me off the face of the earth._

Kiyoomi laughs, though he kind of wants to cry.

“What’s so funny?” Atsumu says out loud with a pout. “Yer real scary when yer mad.”

“I wasn’t—” Kiyoomi’s face is hot. “I wasn’t angry with you.”

“Then what—”

_Oh. Wait... Oh!_

Kiyoomi pulls his hand back before he can hear anymore. He’s sure his ears are already bright red.

“I wanna hear yer thoughts.” Atsumu’s pout morphs into a sly grin. “You could — could ya show me instead?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. “Absolutely not. You’re still drunk.”

“Omiiiiii,” he whines. “Not fair.”

It isn’t fair. Nothing about this is fair.

“Does it bother you?” Kiyoomi has to know. 

“That you fantasize about me in the locker room?” Atsumu is absolutely giddy. “This one time I saw ya—.”

“No.” Kiyoomi shakes that image right out of his head. “Does it bother you that I can hear what you’re thinking? That I’ve been... doing this to you and... and I didn’t tell you.”

Atsumu laughs.

“I’m serious.” Kiyoomi frowns. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I invaded your head. I listened to your private thoughts without you knowing. I manipulated you into coming inside so I could— so I—.” Kiyoomi clenches his jaw.

“So ya could what? Pet my head?” Atsumu smiles and raises a brow.

Kiyoomi shrugs.

“You didn’t make me do anythin’. I wanted to come inside. I wanted to sit with ya and drink tea with ya and—.”

“And?”

Atsumu leans over the counter. His fingers find their way into Kiyoomi’s hair and pull them together.

_I wanted to do this._

Atsumu’s lips are soft and his breath is warm and not once does Kiyoomi even think about how unsanitary this is (okay, maybe for a millisecond). All he can think is how he wants this— how he wants—.

_I want you, Kiyoomi._

When they break, Atsumu smiles at him.

“I want you too, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi whispers.


End file.
